Serene to Extreme

I haven’t worn shin guards since second grade.

They currently sit in a cardboard box underneath a heap of grade school sports’ relics. Trophies, ribbons and team photos where the one kid makes a slightly unconventional smile fill the chest of past memories. Sitting in a rarely visited corner of my basement, surrounded by baby books, the box acts as a grave. A burial ground for my grass-stained soccer years.

Admittedly, most of my career I was lost and more focused on hoarding orange slices at halftime than actually winning the game.  And most of the trophies in my basement graveyard are obligatory “best effort” awards that the semi-delusional goalie could win.

But I enjoyed futbol nonetheless. That is, before my second grade retirement that shocked the world. Following my decision, I never thought I would kick a ball again. So when I was asked to join a recreational soccer team after a seven year hiatus, I was naturally hesitant. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to revisit those memories of running away from the ball in a fear-induced panic and yelling for mommy.

But with encouragement from friends, and a soccer for dummies handbook, I said yes.

Time to dig up some confidence. And my old shin guards.

***

“Is that really it?” my friend inquires. The building looks more like a run-down warehouse from Saw than a pleasant soccer complex. I’m worried to step outside the air-conditioned comfort of my car because I may fall into a series of cleverly conceived death traps.

I begin to shake in my tie-dye socks.

The spooky, not-well-marked shed rests quietly off the highway. It’s a place that your mother Googles quickly before you leave to make sure there hasn’t been any criminal activity there in the past week. A place you always spot off the highway but never really know what it is. An odd vagueness looms around the building like a foul stench.

A quick glance around the ill-lit parking lot reveals parents getting out of mini-vans and SUVs, unbuckling kids and popping up DVD players. I feel instantly reassured. If the kid who just finished watching the collective works of “Dora The Explorer” is playing here, maybe my teenage pals and I can too.

Walking alongside parents holding camcorders and lawn chairs as if they’re battle gear, I have no idea who we’ll play. All I’ve seen so far are young children, and I’m not sure how the Kansas Legal System looks upon teenage kids obliterating toddlers in a game of soccer.

Then we see them.

The brawny 14-man unit looked like tattoo-clad employees from Harley Davidson; I felt like they may mock me for arriving in my plush 1994 Jeep Cherokee. It was right then that I realized playing the random “Dora The Explorer” junkie wouldn’t have been so bad.

By the end of the exhausting night, we had lost. Actually, we were systematically destroyed. I think it was 11-0, but I’m not sure because they stopped counting goals in an attempt to maintain our already low self-esteem. I have bruises on my body, and heard more than one expletive shouted my way by the rough and tough opposing squad.

Our team name was the “Chillahs,” and that’s exactly what I intended to do — chill. But by the end of the pain-filled evening, I felt physically abused by the group of 40-year-old soccer players.

It was more like Saw than even I had expected.

***

When signing up to play on the Chillahs, I felt like I was signing a contract into a season of recreational bliss. In other words, an excuse to see friends and giggle at cringe-inducing images of grown men sporting shin guards and short shorts. However, after an embarrassing loss capable of making die-hard fútbol fans give up on the sport entirely, I vowed to find the problem with our team.

Then the answer came to me — it was determination.

I should have guessed that desire to win would be an issue when we decided on Chillahs as a team name. Or maybe I could have guessed it when the “i” on my jersey was printed with a heart dotting it. Or the dead giveaway: according to at least the male team members, the jersey’s choice color was “effeminate-looking-teal.”

Our feminine jerseys, combined with a lack of motivation and overall disinterest in soccer, put us at a disadvantage out on the field. I began growing accustomed to defeat. Each week a vastly different team would beat us. There was the one team composed solely of blood relatives that beat us 7 -2 and was less endearing as they were creepy. And then there was the one team of amateur soccer players who essentially used us as a punching bag in a 14 – 1 thwarting.

But despite such serious defeat every week, we actually wanted to win. And we did win a few times, both times against the scientifically inaccurate “Blue Thunder.” The team was made up of teens from South, who more often than not verbally attacked our soccer skill and even once called me “stupid.”

It was about halfway through our season that I came to terms with the fact that we would not make it to the championship.

Even with this loser mentality, we still set goals. And those goals began and ended with beating “Blue Thunder.”

It seemed fitting that our final game of the season was against our cross-town rivals. Rec soccer just got a lot more serious.

Minus the large crowds, skilled teams and obnoxious vuvuzelas, this last game was to be our World Cup.

We were playing for the pride of the 10-man-deep Chillah faithful.

***

I’ve heard the dance-floor worthy lyrics to Chromeo’s “Fancy Footwork” sung in the backseat of my car easily a hundred times. For the entirety of the rec soccer season, this track has been to my car what a theme song is to a television show. Each Friday I turn the bass to a safe level in my aging Jeep Cherokee, and just wait for the synth. And this Friday was no exception.

But I feel different.

We still jammed to “footwork.” We still called our moms and told them we’d be back by 11. But rather than last week, I feel like I have to win. There is no award for winning: no tangible item I can flaunt to my non soccer playing subordinates. Yet I have to win.

So with shin guards on and pre-game speech from Remember the Titans on repeat in my head, I pull into the complex. I walk to our pre-determined field. And I’m ready to play.

After some less than impressive half-assed warm-ups, the game starts. From the get-go we assert ourselves as the dominant high school team, firing a mid-range shot into the back of the goal quickly from the start. 1-0.

As the game goes on, usual insults fly back and forth between each team and the ref does his best, “Hey, stop that!” that he obviously practiced in front of his mirror shortly before coming. Then, due to a defensive flaw – which is just a fancy word for being lazy- we got burned and the game was tied. 1-1.

To be blunt, I was furious. Then in an indescribable, euphoria-like moment, I had an epiphany. Everything stood still, and the booming complex air conditioner almost seemed to shut up for a moment. Rec soccer was not a joke.

Those 40-year-old players we had played were out there because of their passion for soccer. The South kids were there because they wanted to achieve something together. That family of soccer players was there because they loved soccer.

And suddenly; I had new-found energy. I quickly subbed in for an exhausted forward and ran onto the field like a cheetah hunting its prey. Quickly into my shift I gained possession of the ball, then quickly lost it to the South Kid whose tooth I accidentally knocked out earlier in the season. I probably shouldn’t have been mad at the guy whose dentures I took down in their prime; but I was.

I wanted that win. I stole the ball back from toothless, then quickly passed it up to another player. She passed it on to a forward. He finally gave it to our lone player by the opposing goal. Than it went in; as if we had that series of passes rehearsed before the game.

Our World Cup was over. I could almost hear a faint vuvuzela in the distance.

Our team stood in disbelief at the impressive play that unfolded right before us. And we finally felt motivated; at least now we knew that we didn’t throw away six weeks of winter. Our last-second victory was just what our team needed.

When I left the complex that night, I left with the knowledge that I’d be returning for another year of rec soccer memories. And before I went to bed, I stowed away my jersey, soccer ball and rec soccer I.D. until next year’s return.

And my shin guards will never go in the basement again.